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The decision to nudge the sport towards the ‘lads’ mag’ market is a sad and grubby move, writes Matthew Syed

If you took a malevolent impresario — the entertainment equivalent of
Descartes’s evil genius — and asked him to come up with the crassest,
cheapest, tackiest and most godforsakenly awful sporting event in history.
If you incentivised him with a wad of cash for every toe that duly curled.
If you offered a bonus for making it as ghastly for the live punter as the
television viewer. If you gave him a large cheque for every mouth that
whimpered “no more, please”.

Even then, he (I am assuming that evil geniuses are invariably masculine)
would be hard pressed to have come up